London's Rain
by fictionaladdicts
Summary: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had always been friends ... that was until it started.
1. London's Rain - Chapter One

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had always liked one another. It was that simple. Sherlock liked the way that John could make the perfect coffee and John liked the way Sherlock could make him want to smile or smash his head against the wall a few times. They were friends. Plain and simple.

That was until it started.

It was raining that day. Well, they were in central London, and it was the middle of winter; so it _always _rained. But John liked the rain. He liked the way that the water droplets would splutter down the window or spill slowly like they couldn't decide whether or not to let themselves drop to the ground. He liked how they seemed to have their own little story; even if it was for only a few seconds.

Sherlock hated the rain. He thought that it was a disturbance. It was a disruption to the peace; to his thinking, to his mind palace. The freezing cold weather he could deal with. It was just there. It didn't disrupt his thoughts. But the rain, especially the thunder, he just wanted to get up and shoot at it like he did at the wall. But he suspected that if he did that Mrs Hudson from downstairs would come running up to tell him off like she always did.

_That woman, _Sherlock thought numbly.

John wasn't sitting in his usual chair today; the one closest to the kitchen and facing the window. But rather he was standing by the window admiring the rain like he usually did. On most days Sherlock would become irritable and make sarcastic remarks at John for standing so dramatically by the window just to watch the rain fall.

'We're in England John, it rains almost every day. If you're going to stand by the window to watch the rain fall _every single time that it rains, _then I can tell you one thing; your life is going to be _extremely _un-productive.' Then as an after note he mumbled, 'I mean, not that it's too productive anyway.'

'I heard that.' John replied, though there was nothing harsh to it, he just said it.

That's when Sherlock found himself smiling. Not keeping a straight face at what John would say, but actually smiling. He didn't even smile when he solved one of the many mysteries that were brought to him. At once he tried to think of something witty to say. Something to distract himself, but it wasn't really working. 'Well …'

John turned around. He was leaning casually against the white, Victorian window sill; the pale, blue morning light glistening across his face. His hair was a mess, all tousled and crazy. But it looked good on him. It was different to his usual tamed hair do. He looked happy like that.

John was smirking. _He's smirking. He's actually smirking at me, _Sherlock thought to himself annoyingly. _Ugh. _

'Well what, _Sherlock_?'

And for once, Sherlock Holmes was absolutely speechless. He couldn't even muster himself to sputter 'what,' or 'well.' He just looked at John. He was like a painting standing there: shadows and lines.

John laughed slightly, beginning to turn back to the window.

'Why do you do that?' Sherlock blurted suddenly.

John spun around again, staring Sherlock directly in the eye.

Sherlock hated it when he did that. It meant that he had to do it back, otherwise he felt defeated. John Watson seemed to be the only person that Sherlock knew who could make him feel intimidated. 'That. Why do you _always _watch the rain Watson?'

'Sherlock you know exactly why.'

'No. No I don't actually. Tell me.'

John smiled. 'Sherlock I'm not going to tell you. Besides, I'm not going to _bore _you with the poetic details.'

Sherlock suddenly felt a sting of sadness. He didn't realise John thought that when he spoke to Sherlock that John thought he was _boring _him. That was one thing Sherlock was sure on in life: John Watson could never bore him. Never.

'John,' Sherlock whispered. 'You could _never _bore me. _Never._'

'Yes Sherlock.'

The rain outside began to roar and John turned back to the window.


	2. Breakfast at Baker Street- Chapter Two

Breakfast at 221B Baker Street was always so ordinary and quiet. Well, Sherlock stepped over chairs, sorted through papers, twitched and occasionally shot at the wall, but at least he was quiet about it. All the while, John Watson, sat there, and stifled back a laugh. But this particular morning, things were, looking slightly different.

John was sitting at the round dining room table – that was far too large for the kitchen – and sat as far away as possible from the body infested fridge. Sherlock found it amusing to keep human fingers – real fingers! – and the occasional toe stashed away. Don't get me wrong, having been a doctor in the armed forces, John Watson had certainly seen his fair share of delightful body parts –and some were quite delightful – but whilst sipping his nice, hot cup of coffee and flipping through the morning paper, he preferred not to be near any body parts … okay, _except Sherlock Holmes' … _John blinked a few times at his abrupt and unexpected thought. He swallowed and looked around the apartment, as if someone might hear his thoughts. Through the running of water from Sherlock's shower, he could hear the other man humming ever so slightly. _Odd,_ John thought,_ very odd._ He had never known Sherlock Holmes to hum or do anything exciting, but he seemed to be doing a lot of it lately. John would catch Sherlock smiling when he looked down and most of the time it seemed to be happening when John was in the room.

John focused his attention back on the newspaper in his hands and began to read it just as the phone rang loudly. The next thing John knew, the shower had been turned off and Sherlock was running almost naked out of the shower to get the phone. John looked him up and down, taking him in. His hair was lightly wet, his blue eyes were bluer than ever and his bare torso was simply glistening from the water and steam. John had to force himself to look away. _God. Get a hold on yourself, John Watson._

But, to his seemingly lost mind, Sherlock Holmes was indeed a beautiful sight. Nothing about Sherlock's body could be faulted. He was like a perfectly drawn piece of art. He made you stop and stare just by making his presence known, and most of all, he made you feel _something._

John gulped again, his heartbeat quickening.

Sherlock had the phone cord wrapped around his fingers, playing with it slightly. The phone was held to his ear and he looked over at John only to flash him a quick grin.

John was frozen on the spot. Before he could register it or even function enough to do something – anything – Sherlock was murmuring into the phone. Whoever was on the other end of the phone was receiving Sherlock's usual and ordinary smart arse personality. Well, as ordinary and usual as a high-functioning sociopath could give.

'What do you _mean _it was there and now it's just simply gone?'

Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, the recent caller of crime was obviously not satisfying Sherlock's needs of crazy criminals and unsolvable reasons. _Poor guy is going to cop it._ John felt increasingly sorry for the person on the receiving end of the phone.

'Well that's just absolutely ridiculous. Something cannot just merely disappear and not be found. This is nonsense.'

Sherlock wiggled his nose absentmindedly.

John had to cover his mouth with his hands to not show his grin. _He's adorable. _

'I'm sorry – actually I am not sorry – but this nonsense is making me want to bang my head against the wall.' And with that, he slammed the phone down. 'All of bloody London and there hasn't been a single decent case for three weeks! Three whole _bloody weeks! _John Watson I cannot take it anymore!'

John began to clear his throat, attempting to gain control over his emotions. 'Well … um –'

'I just cannot handle it anymore. I'm bored.' Sherlock flung himself into the chair opposite John, his towel hanging low on his toned waist. Showing just enough for the mind to race, but left enough for the imagination.

John tried not to stare. Suddenly, the inside of his coffee mug became the most interesting thing in the entire room.

'John …' Sherlock began.

John tried to think of something to say. 'Eat,' he said, pushing forwards two pieces of toast, trying not to look at Sherlock.

'No.'

'Eat.' John was failing to hold back a laugh.

'No.'

'Eat.'

'No.'

'Sherlock Holmes, will you just eat for the love of God?' And John made the mistake of looking up, directly into Sherlock's enchanting blue eyes. He could write soppy poetry and bad music about those eyes if there was any peace and quiet when living with Sherlock. And, of course, if he could actually write poetry and soppy music. But somehow, those eyes made John feel as though he could do anything. Even poetry.

Sherlock grinned.

'Stop doing that,' John mumbled.

'Stop doing what?' Sherlock's grin widened.

'Just – stop … eat.'

'Can I at least put some clothes on first?'

'No. Eat.'

'Why, John Watson, do you prefer me better with my clothes off?'

John didn't answer but rather got up and shoved the toast into Sherlock's mouth.

'Oh John, you are a piece of work,' Sherlock said as best as he could with a piece of toast in his mouth. It worked though. John had finally got Sherlock to eat.


	3. Theatre Dramatics - Chapter Three

Theatre Dramatics

Chapter Three

**Two months before**

'Yeah, Sherlock Holmes, you're going to like this one.' And Lestrade hung up.

'We found him like this.'

'Oh,' Sherlock faintly heard John behind him.

'John I would've thought this be nothing to you,' Anderson said, while cracking his gloved fingers mockingly.

'Anderson what have I told you about speaking whilst others are trying to think? You bring down the IQ of the whole neighbourhood, Anderson. No wonder why you work with the dead ones, you can't hurt them; they're already brain dead.'

John raised an eyebrow, pulling on his other rubber glove. Lestrade snorted, receiving a rather nasty stare from Anderson. 'Sorry.' Lestrade did not sound sorry.

'Hush Lestrade. John Watson, what do you think?'

John looked a little bewildered. The three men looked at him as if waiting for him to say something marvellous or make some brilliant deduction like Sherlock always did. He only ever remembered Sherlock asking for John's opinion on two occasions. One; was when they had first worked on a case together, and two; was when Sherlock was feeling bored and had wished to be amused. Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, he looked neither bored nor in need of amusement.

John stepped forward. They were in the middle of an abandoned theatre situated in the dodgy parts of London. The wooden floorboards creaking under John's foot, seemed to be the loudest thing in the much too silent room. 'Well, I think whoever did this was very creative. A little morbid, but, nonetheless, creative.'

Indeed they had been creative. The victim was lying, well, the victims torso was lying on the floor, however the victims head, hands, feet, legs and arms were spread out seated on a chair in a circle around the torso.

'No shit, Sherlock,' Anderson said.

The three other men stared at Anderson. 'You know I can hear the Australians suffering from your stupidity, Anderson.' Sherlock said simply.

'You –' Anderson began but Lestrade cut in.

'Yes, I would agree with that, _John_.'

'Lestrade, you said I would like this one. I don't see anything special other than a creative murder, and quite frankly, I have seen much better. He didn't even remove the eyes out of their sockets. An opportunity missed I think Lestrade.'

'Sherlock,' John hissed. 'Have some respect.'

Sherlock, stared at John, then at the floor, but did not say anything back.

'Yes, well … no, we thought you might like this.' Lestrade bent over picking up a plastic evidence bag and handing it to Sherlock. Sherlock examined the torn piece of paper briefly, handing it to John.

'_It's alright to die, it's the only thing you haven't tried,_' John read out.

'Yes … it sounds … familiar.'

'There was also this,' Lestrade went on, handing Sherlock another evidence bag. This piece of paper looked rather torn, and quiet bloody. There were several inscriptions, numbers and codes splattered across the page.

'Where did you find this?'

'Well, it had been sewn into the man's foot.'

Sherlock took the statement in as though Lestrade had said nothing at all. 'These papers are torn. They obviously don't match, even someone as stupid as Anderson could work that one out.' Anderson began to open his mouth, but was cut off once more with a menacing look being shot his way by both Sherlock and Lestrade. 'No – but I want to know where these papers came from, where their matches are.'

'That's the thing, we did.' Lestrade said pointedly.

'So now it gets interesting.'

'This man wasn't very good with knives,' John observed, looking at the cuttings of the body.

'Oh, thank god, somebody said that finally,' Sherlock heaved.

John ignored him. 'But why would they do this? Why?'

Lestrade threw his hands up as if to say he had no idea. 'The man's brother has a book that matches the rip of the quote.'

'But that isn't right. He wouldn't be so stupid. Not even Anderson would be so stupid as to leave a book around the place that had the rips of a murder.'

'Yes. Exactly. But this is what you'll like, when we tested the paper for finger tips, we found some. Many actually. On _both _of the papers. But the thing is, the finger prints _changed_.'

'Changed?' John asked. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that the finger prints changed. I don't know how, but when we got them tested they changed within the time period of say only ten minutes testing, according to Molly.'

'Are you – '

'Sure? Yes, I am sure. Molly is sure. She's not an idiot. She knows what she's doing when it comes to this stuff. She said that the finger prints from the quote _changed. _And the victim's brother, Mitchell Levi, says that he's never seen that book with the ripped page before today.'

John muttered something along the lines of 'don't they all' while he shook his head in utter confusion.

**Two months later**

'Sherlock Holmes, you get your good-lookin' British arse down here right now!' John breathed in and out several times heavily, picturing as many ways as possible to cage Sherlock Holmes in his head before Sherlock came stumbling down the stairs, his dressing gown fluttering open. John tried to look away, but only met the man's deep blue eyes and almost felt bad for yelling. _Almost_.

'I'm sorry, but did I just hear you say that I had a good-looking British arse?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

_Sometimes, I just want to strangle the man. _John thought to himself frustratingly.

He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. 'Yes. I did. But that's not the point. The poi – '

'Actually, whenever we are on the subject of my brilliant body, it is _always _the point John Watson. I don't see what could be better to discuss rather than my good-looking British tushi.'

John snorted. 'Did you just say _tushi_?'

'Yes, John Watson, I did. I found the word rather exasperating to start with, but I soon enough found reason to use it. Perhaps I could find reason to touch _yours _... someday…'

John's jaw dropped; not because he was in absolute horror and shock, but because he was _sure _he hadn't heard right. However, if what he heard was correct, then he surely thought he would _enjoy it._ John just looked at Sherlock. _Honestly, you're sometimes the dumbest genius ever. _

Sherlock bit his lip.

John breathed in steadily and as subtly as possible. 'Why? Why are you doing that now?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his eyes smiling. 'Doing what, John?' Sherlock asked as innocently and as dumbly as possible.

'This,' John said, bitting his lower lip as quickly as possible. If he started thinking like that god wouldn't even want to watch what would happen.

Sherlock blinked, trying not to laugh. 'John Watson,' he said, sounding way too truthful for the truth. 'My lips are parched.'

'Who the _bleeding hell says parched_?' John squeaked. 'And if your lips are so goddamn _parched _then go drink some bloody water, instead of standing there with your hair all tousled like that while talking about _tushies _and biting your _parched lips_!'

Sherlock seemed to show absolutely no emotion. 'John Watson, what do you want from me? I was just about to go shampoo my _tousled_ hair.'

John had to blink a few times. He cleared his throat roughly. _Did I just say that Sherlock's hair was _tousled? _Oh for the love of god. _John turned around avoiding Sherlock's heavy gaze, pointing to the messy papers, newspaper cuttings and folders of Sherlock's past, present and much to John's annoyance, future case.

'Yes,' Sherlock said. 'Those are papers John, very good observance. You're improving.'

'Shut up Sherlock.'

'Now John Watson, there is no need to be rude is there, my dear?'

'My _dear, _what is wrong with you this morning Sherlock?' John leant back against the wooden old-fashioned desk near the window.

'Nothing, John Watson. I'm just opening my British blue eyes a bit more. I have learnt to observe, not just see.'

'Sherlock, I'm not the poetic one here. Have you _read _my emails to my ex-girlfriends? Actually don't answer that, I know you've read them. Of course you've read them. But what –?'

'You know exactly what I mean my dear, John Watson.' Sherlock interrupted. Somehow, John picked up what Sherlock was getting at.

'Look, I may understand … and because of that … you need to stop doing this.' John slammed his hand down on the desk, the cases papers fluttering around in the cool London breeze.

'Stop what?'

John rolled his eyes. 'This! Sherlock, you are obsessed! You couldn't solve it, get over yourself! There hasn't been another victim like that since. It's finished. Let the poor man mourn; stop letting him think that there's hope that you'll find the murderer.'

'And, John Watson; what is your point?' _I wish; I hope … _

'There are plenty of other cases and no matter how many you solve, you always seemed to go back to this one. Why, Sherlock?' John's voice dropped.

'I'm interested.' Sherlock shrugged, trying to deter himself from rushing over to John and hugging him; he knew exactly what John was getting at and he hated himself for be such as snob when he liked that John was thinking that.

'Interested in what? Interested in him?' John stabbed an image of a rather tired but pretty looking man, his eyes the colour of wet grass in the winter. 'Because I have never seen you get so involved in a case. What is this about now? Do you just want the satisfaction of solving _another _unsolvable case, or is it the emotion to care that you have buried deep down in you somewhere?'

_He does … _Sherlock began to think with a smile on the inside. _No, he can't, but what if he does … _

'Well, Sherlock?'

'John Watson …' Sherlock's voice nearly cracked. He couldn't help himself anymore; he made his way over to the man, placing his hands over John's, moving it away from the image of the victim's brother.

John made the undeniable perfect mistake of looking up into Sherlock's eyes; then he saw his soft pink lips and … 'You don't mean this, Sherlock … you don't care. You like the chase, you like the thrill. You crave the gore, the mystery and the pain.'

'Yes …' Sherlock let his thumb rub over the soft skin of John's hand. 'Yes, I do … I do care.' He let his other hand trail down the back of John's spin, sending electric shivers all over John; he nearly gasped in surprise. 'John Watson, I do.'

And, before John Watson could stop himself, he was cupping Sherlock's sculpted face, the face of an angel, a fallen angel that John wanted to catch over and over again. 'You are so, so, beautiful.' _He's ignoring the point. He's deliberately dodging my point. _

'Only, because I've been lit up on the inside by somebody like you, my dear.'

'I need to kiss you. I want to kiss you.' _I can be mad at him tomorrow. Later on. Later on … _

'My dear, John Watson, do as you please …'


End file.
